


variations on a cloud

by ephemeralgrime



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Magic, Ritual Sex, just a fun sexy time had by all, let women be horny and stupid 2kalways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralgrime/pseuds/ephemeralgrime
Summary: So, okay. It’s not that a sex ritual is so unusual. A sex ritual is a Wednesday night at the abbey.A weather spell, but make it sexy.
Relationships: Cirrus | Air Ghoulette/Cumulus | Air Ghoulette
Comments: 27
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> happy femslash february! \o/
> 
> imo, ritual sex as a trope is as delightful as it is well-trod, but i couldn't find anything f/f that scratched that itch for me. so i wrote it my dang self! 
> 
> excuse all liberties taken with the weather in sweden. it was all done in the name of Fan Fiction - i'm sure you understand. 
> 
> title from the song by miracle musical.

Summers in Lincopia are usually mild. Spring-adjacent, really. Not a blip on the radar if you’re used to something several orders of magnitude hotter and more southern. 

But it’s been warm for weeks now. And today’s not just warm—it’s _hot_. Siblings all over the abbey have been hemming their robes and fanning themselves with varying levels of discretion during sweatier and sweatier Rituals. Cirrus has seen more damp bosoms and collarbones in the last week than she everhas before—and that’s saying something. Smart money’s on naked Mass in T-minus seventy-two hours.

Cirrus likes the heat. All the ghouls do. When you’re built for hellfire, a dry ninety-five is pretty nice. 

But the humans—being weak and soft and generally flammable—tend to disagree. For weeks now, the Air ghouls have been pulling long hours keeping the halls cool and breezy for their sake. Copia’s a gentle taskmaster, but it’s still bitter work curving air currents around buttresses and keeping a three-story foyer cold. They’re all exhausted. 

Which is why this afternoon is such a _welcome fucking respite_. It’s a perfect sunny day: cloudy but bright, and warm enough that the heat spreads over you like a blanket if you lie out for long enough, which Cirrus fully intends to do, because she’s suddenly got the afternoon off. 

“Oh, just go already before I change my mind,” Sister Imperator says at the entrance to the abbey, fanning herself with one jeweled hand. The half-circle of frazzled Air ghouls around her don’t move, waiting for confirmation that this isn't just a dangled carrot. After yesterday’s humid shitshow of a Ritual, it seems too good to be true. 

Imperator’s blouse is damp around her throat. _“Shoo_. Enjoy your afternoon. You’re being cut loose for good behavior.” She inches back into the cool, dim hallway. “If anyone needs me, don’t.”

“Thanks, Mom!” Cirrus calls at her back. The heavy door shuts without a reply. “Man, they get grumpy when they’re hot.” 

There’s a chorus of happy chitters as the ghouls all scatter to their preferred vice for the afternoon. Cumulus looks hopefully toward the direction of the lake, but Cirrus pulls her towards the gardens instead.

“It’ll be human soup by the time we get there,” she says, tugging her by the wrist towards the shady trees near the orchard. “The Siblings beat us to it hours ago. C’mon. I’ll braid your hair.”

And she does, clumsily, but with great enthusiasm, which is sort of her MO.Cumulus’ hair is soft and hot beneath her fingers, and she feels loose and giddy with the thrill of not having to work after expecting to be busy all day. 

“Done.” Cirrus snaps the elastic band. “You’re the belle of the ball.”

Cumulus makes a face when she feels around the back of her head and finds a loose chunk of hair that seemed to miss the memo about the braid. 

“How did you make it tight _and_ loose?” Her fingers creep along the crown of her head, then she catches Cirrus looking at her. “You’re about to make some sort of pun. I can just feel it.” She narrows her eyes. “Please know it will be poorly received.” 

“Noted and disregarded. I’m an _Air_ ghoul. Not a _hair_ ghoul.” 

“Terrible. Boo.” 

“Too bad you love me.” 

Cumulus presses two fingers to her lips, then to Cirrus’ temple. “Yeah, too bad.”

They rearrange themselves a little, shifting around on the grass so Cirrus has her legs spread over Cumulus’ lap. They’re under the branches of one of the big trees by the southern side of the gardens, just close enough for the cider-sharp smell of ripe apples to drift over when it’s breezy. Cirrus’ jacket’s bunched up behind her in a makeshift pillow, and she’s dozing a little in that lazy, sun-baked summer way, smelling hot grass and the sun on Cumulus’ hair when she hears someone approaching. 

“Pope incoming,” Cumulus says, squeezing her thigh. 

Cirrus blinks sleep out of her eyes, watching Copia approach. The sun’s moved since they sat down, and the whole front lawn is washed in deep yellow light.

“He looks hot,” Cumulus says, watching him step carefully across the lawn in full papal regalia, his layers dragging in the grass. They're both in head-to-toe black too, but Copia can’t exactly summon his own personal breeze. “Velvet in the summer. Rookie mistake.” 

“You know wild horses couldn’t drag him away from those robes. He’d never last a day in Hell.” Cirrus pauses. “Do you think he’d be offended by that?”

“Yes. Don’t say anything.” Cumulus gives her ankle a warning pinch. 

“Ow!” 

“Be nice. He’s going to ask for help with the weather.” Cumulus nods in Copia’s direction. “Watch.”

“Cirrus! Cumulus!” Copia calls as he approaches, trailed by a bored-looking Dewdrop. “I’m glad I found you. I wanted to ask you something.”

Now there’s a textbook lead-in for a favor if she’s ever heard one. She can feel Cumulus making eyes at her, but she won’t give her the satisfaction of being right, so she turns to face Copia instead.

“What can we do for you, Papa?” She asks, swatting Cumulus’ hand away from her leg.

Copia pauses for a moment. He’s doing his best attempt at all business here, but he’s never been very good at disguising his intentions. The paint’s creasing between his brows, sort of like he hasn’t quite figured how to set a full face of it with how much he worries. Cirrus can see two little parallel lines of bare skin right above his nose. It’s sort of cute, like seeing your dad with his tie on backwards.

“Let me guess,” Cirrus says, flicking her finger to send a breeze ruffling around Copia’s ankles. She catches a flash of a black argyle sock when his robes lift a little. He doesn’t flinch. A few years in the crucible of ghoul torment will do that to you. “The rose bushes?” 

Copia nods after a beat, clutching at the front of his chasuble delicately. “The pansies too. And the grass.” He gestures in a circle around them, where, yeah, the lawn is looking pretty brown. “And Mountain said the citrus trees were...” his mouth curls with the distaste of repeating something that you don’t particularly believe. “Thirsty.” 

“They seemed fine to me,” Dewdrop says over his shoulder.

“Yes, thank you for your expertise, Dewdrop.” Copia pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m your resident expert in all things hot.” He clasps his hands behind his back in scholarly indifference. “I can say with full confidence that they weren’t on fire.” 

_“Dewdrop-”_

Cirrus is content to watch this play out and see how much more paint Copia can worry off in a single conversation, but Cumulus is tightening her fingers around her ankle again. Better let her take the lead. 

“We’ll take care of it, Papa,” Cumulus says with the practiced smoothness of a career mediator. She pats Cirrus’ legs again. The message is clear: _Play nice._

Copia pauses, then dips his head gratefully. Even in the heat, robes dragging, posture stooped, he manages to look regal. 

“Get with Sister Imperator to get what you need. Sooner rather than later, please.”

“Say no more, boss.” Cirrus says. She taps her fingers to her forehead in salute.

Copia sighs. “ _Papa_.” 

“Oh, no need to call me _Papa_ ,” she says. “It’s Miss Cirrus if you’re nasty.”

Dewdrop is doubled over, suddenly, by a bout of coughing that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

“I’m leaving, and when I come back, I want rain,” Copia says wearily. “Please.” He draws up his robes to leave. Dewdrop answers Cirrus’ salute behind Copia with a bit more middle-finger than seems necessary. “Think of the grass.” 

He takes his leave with Dewdrop at his back. 

“You know, you’d think a fuck-the-establishment Satanist would be a little more critical of lawn culture,” Cirrus says as they walk away, drawing her legs up so Cumulus can wiggle out from underneath her. They stand together, stretching the stiffness away. Cirrus brushes a twig off Cumulus’ shoulder with a twitch of her finger.

“Is he _fuck-the-establishment,_ though _?_ ” Cumulus asks, finger-combing the braid out of her hair, checking for leaves. “I thought he was more of a _make-the-establishment-work-for-you_ type.” 

“Like I keep up with the literature,” Cirrus says, leaning in to cup Cumulus’ jaw. There’s a freckle to the right of her mouth, and Cirrus wants to see if her lips are as warm as they look. “I’m just here for the company.”

* * *

Air’s a funny element. It doesn’t help that you can’t see it. Something about how _tactile_ the other elements are always make them seem more real. And it especially doesn’t help that Cirrus has spent most of her time on Earth air-conditioning rooms and floating heavy objects. With that kind of resumé, you get a reputation for being superfluous. 

But no other element can change the weather.

A weather spell takes a lot of energy, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat. The Papas like bloodletting; it’s a classic for a reason, and nothing fires up a crowd like a little spilled blood. But Cirrus is squeamish, and rain on fresh wounds tends to smart. Fasting works too, in a sort of delayed way, but they’re on a tight time table here, and self-restraint is no fun. If you’re a stuffy old bastard like the ancient Air ghouls, you can even read spells until you faint. 

Sex is the most fun. 

* * *

“Don’t you need water ghouls for the ritual?” Rain asks. “I mean, the one to bring the rain. Not the capital-R kind.”

They’re shoulder-to-shoulder among a smattering of ghouls in the crowded dining hall, picking at cold cuts. The kitchen ghouls didn’t want to make it any hotter than it already was for the humans’ sake with the ovens on, so they’re having a ploughman’s lunch. It doesn’t matter for the ghouls, but Cirrus won’t look a gift charcuterie board in the mouth. 

Rain stares up at her with a face full of earnestness. She stares down at his place full of pepperoni.

“All that meat will stunt your growth,” she says, stealing a piece and popping it into her mouth.

Rain pulls his plate away protectively. “You only have pickles on yours.”

“Like calls to like. I’m full of vinegar.” She wiggles a pickle spear at him like she’s brandishing a weapon. _All quiver before Cirrus, slayer of lunch meat._

“I just thought,” Rain continues, pressing ahead. “That, you know. With the rain and everything. Maybe you’d need some help from me?” He scratches the back of his neck. “I could use a little practice working with other elements.”

Oh, sweet Rain. Cirrus chews for a moment while she considers the most polite way to brush him off, because he’s being so _earnest_ , and would probably be thrilled to hold runes and pray all night like a dork if that’s the kind of ritual they were actually doing. 

She dabs her mouth carefully with a napkin. “Well, it's not just the _rain_ , it's the weather,” she says carefully, taking a briny bite of pickle. “It's bigger than the rain. Higher up in the sky. Humidity. Air currents, and, um-”

Her eyes slide to Cumulus then, speaking with Sister Imperator at the front of the hall, right by the big window, probably requesting the items they’re going to need. Her gestures are round and fluid; her hands beautiful, even from afar. "Well, you know. Cloud patterns."

Rain narrows his eyes, suddenly suspicious. “Cloud patterns,” he repeats flatly.

“Trade secrets. Air ghoul eyes only.” She eats a cheese cube from a tray in front of then, then catches his stung face. “Rain, baby. You’re sweet to offer, but it’s better if it’s just us.”

So, okay. It’s not that a sex ritual is so unusual. A sex ritual is a Wednesday night at the abbey. It’s just that once word gets out, _everyone_ wants an invite, and then you’ve got a whole bunch of people jockeying for time on the altar and stepping on your tail, and once the scale tips into an orgy, all the focused energy is lost.

This is _possibly_ why Cirrus hasn’t corrected the assumption that they’re just going to chant hymns at the sky all night. 

When everything you do is for the service of a greater power, when all of your energy is focused on harnessing something beautiful and arcane for someone _else’s_ benefit, and when you perform ritual sex acts with the banality of a day job— _God_ , is it so bad to want a little sex magic all for yourself? 

There are actually some spells that work best with a crowd, with that kind of sexual cacophony that only an orgy can produce. Orgasms all the way down, for as long as it takes for a whole sanctuary’s worth of people and ghouls to wear themselves out. Peaks and valleys for hours. Exhausting, white-noise sex magic.

But sometimes you just need _one_. One peak. No valleys. One big, beautiful arc, straight into the sky.

Cumulus signals to Cirrus over Sister Imperator’s shoulder, looking pink-cheeked and excited. It’s time to go. Cirrus wipes her hands on her pants as she stands up, feeling a brisk, fierce anticipation. 

“You know, I think Mountain said he needed help misting the ferns,” she says to Rain, swinging her leg over the bench seat. “Not exactly glamorous, but you’ll get some practice in. Water and Earth’s a powerful combination.”

Rain rolls his eyes and waves her off. He might be green, but he’s not stupid, and he can tell when he’s being let down easy. 

“Water and earth make mud,” he says. He eats a slice of pepperoni with resignation. “It’s fine. I’ll see what Aether’s up to. Maybe I can hose down the infirmary.” He looks at her half-eaten plate. “Can I have your pickles?” 

“All yours.” She bends down to kiss the top of his head, right between his horns.

“Gross.” He swipes at his hair, like sisterly affection is something you can dislodge with enough force. “Have fun with your cloud patterns.” 

Cumulus blows him a kiss as Cirrus joins her, linking their arms together as they leave. 

“I intend to,” she calls back, feeling the wind at her heels and in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! find me on tumblr @ ratballet!


	2. Chapter 2

They scout out a spot first, tromping through the woods for long enough that only the peaks of the abbey spires are visible when they look behind them. If you close one eye and squint in the late afternoon light, they could almost be the tips of the trees. 

They’ve got a little time to try to catch the heat wave at its peak—until tomorrow evening, at least, Cirrus thinks—and she's learned it’s best to case the joint a little first before you try any arcane fuckery. Magic seeps out of the abbey like water from a leaky pipe, pooling into nooks and crannies in the forest along the way. It’s really just a matter of finding the most appealing nook and/or cranny for the spell you want to do.

Cirrus still mourns their last spot. It was a shady little alcove under an outcropping by the lake—hard to find unless you knew what you were looking for. Something about the proximity to the water meant that it was _steeped_ in magic. It felt like it oozed between their bare feet wherever they stepped in velvety green moss. If they stayed late enough, it glowed a little under the moon. Real fairytale romance shit. They could get a little buzz like that, marinating in magic and giggling and touching each other. It rained at the abbey for _weeks_.

Of course, that was before they’d learned it was also where the old Earth ghouls liked to smoke. Cumulus had to slap a hand over Cirrus’s mouth to stop her from howling when she’d paused, mid-strip, to see Pebble and Mountain sharing a bong the size of the Western tower ten feet away from them. 

But Cirrus has a good feeling about this one. It’s a crumbling little chunk of rock an hour’s walk from the abbey—probably a chapel back in the day, or a storage building, or a weird sex cabin, half-standing and half-reclaimed by the wilderness. Best of all, too far away for any roving stoned Earth ghouls to bother with. 

“Not much to look at,” Cumulus says when they arrive. She’s tilting her head, like maybe it’ll look better at a forty-five degree angle. 

“Not really planning to look at the scenery much,” Cirrus says, sliding her hands to her shoulders. She watches a dimple appear in Cumulus’ cheek as she screws her mouth to the side, trying not to smile. 

Sprigs of wildflowers and weeds poke up through the crumbling foundation, reaching hopefully towards the sun. The forest is full of places like this: entire little worlds, long-abandoned by their owners. The whole thing looks slumped over and broken, like not only are its days of sex rituals long over, but exhausting to even contemplate. 

Cirrus approaches slowly, not wanting to spook any lingering ghosts. “Maybe it has good bones,” she says, fishing the runestone she’d nicked off one of the Quintessence ghouls for the trip from her pocket. 

“It’s literally _only_ bones. Man, do you ever wonder what's happened at places like this?” Cumulus asks, placing a hand on the nearest lopsided pile of stones. “Like, throughout history. If someone’s ever died _right here_ , or had sex here in this _exact spot_ , or what.” She taps her fingers thoughtfully on the topmost rock. “Do you think I'm touching a pervert stone right now?” 

“ _Everything_ has happened here, apparently,” Cirrus says, holding out her palm. Cumulus shuffles over to peer in close. The runestone glows blue and hot in her hand no matter which way she turns in the rubble. “Magical jackpot.” 

Cumulus peeks over Cirrus’ shoulder at the sunbleached ruins. “But… _where_ , though?”

“I just found you a vintage sex hut in moderately good condition.” She moves the stone to her other palm when it starts to get too hot. “How about ‘ _Thank you, Cirrus?_ ’” 

“Can we check the Yelp reviews first?”

Cirrus slides the runestone in her pocket and steps carefully over what must have been the threshold a few centuries back. “Allow me to scout for you, fair maiden.”

“Find somewhere soft,” Cumulus calls while Cirrus forges ahead, whipping dead grass and debris away with a flick of her wrist. The stone underneath is porous and textured and questionably sturdy. “I don’t want to lie on stones.”

“What about magic pervert stones?”

“Especially not those. Careful!”

Cirrus ducks away from a branch hanging over a low-slung wall. “I will protect your delicate spine with my life. I live to serve your lumbar region.” 

She hears Cumulus’ laugh behind her, clear and high and surprised. “You know how to talk to a lady.”

Cirrus keeps on crunching through the stony rubble, careful not to twist an ankle before she can clear away the mess. It won’t be so bad when it’s cleaned up. Plus, it’s nice and private, and there’s nothing that some lit candles can’t fix. She crouches down to heft a few fallen branches away, and then— _aha_. Score. 

“Over here!” she calls. She can hear Cumulus reluctantly picking her way over. “Jackpot number two.” 

In the crumbling masonry, where the stone and the earth weave in and out of each other, there it is: a little patch of grass. Body-sized, and not much more. Cirrus passes a hand through it exploratorily. It’s lush and springy, not quite sun-warmed in the shade, but not cold, either. There’s even a little patch of clover at the edge.

“Hmm,” Cumulus says over her shoulder. She toes at the earth with a boot, watching the grass compress and then spring back to life. 

“Good _hmm_ or bad _hmm_?” Cirrus asks, wiping her dirty palms on her slacks. 

There’s a pause while she considers. Cirrus tries to be a good sport about it, because Cumulus is the one who’s going to be lying here, all heaving-bosomed and vulnerable, and she has the right to be a little choosy about where she gets railed, but also, they _are_ on a tight time table, and the forest only has so many picturesque body-shaped grass pits. 

But Cumulus just leans forward to pluck a wildflower growing between two stones. She smiles, tucking it in the front pocket of Cirrus’ jacket in silent approval. 

“I hope that flower died for a good cause.” 

Cumulus tucks a strand of loose hair behind Cirrus’ ear. Her hand smells like pollen—grassy and sharp. “Just so we’re clear, if a bug crawls on me, I’m calling this off, and Copia can water the grass himself.” 

Cirrus laughs. “Do you think he has papal swim trunks? Imagine him, in his mitre and a bathing suit with a hose.”

“Don’t change the subject. I’m serious. One spider and I’m gone.”

“No spiders. No stones. No jokes about Papa in his boxers,” Cirrus counts on her fingers. “Any other requests, your highness?”

There’s that dimple again, and a pretty pink blush in the roundest parts of her cheeks. Cumulus turns away before she speaks again. “I mean, you know. Show me a good time.” 

“Technically, I’ve been _ordered by the Pope_ to show you a good time,” Cirrus says, wrapping her arms around Cumulus, so they sit against the soft swell of her chest. Cumulus tilts her head automatically, making room for the sharp jut of Cirrus’ chin. Their bodies slot together so easily. "Like I’d get fired over you.” 

* * *

You can do these things anywhere. Sweden’s more the exception than the rule, because it’s not like the rest of the world is generally overrun with an abundance of weird magical sheds. Ghouls across Earth have learned to make do with what they have. It's like they say: if you don’t have ancient magic at home, store-bought is fine. A ghoul could brute-force a ritual in a parking lot if they needed to. 

But there’s pleasure in stretching your muscles and doing it _right_ , Cirrus thinks, crunching her way through the dry grass on the path back to the abbey. She’s got a flower in her pocket and Cumulus’ hand in the crook of her arm, and she doesn’t _want_ to brute force it. 

She wants to _glide_. 

* * *

“About the rain,” Dewdrop says from over Cirrus’ shoulder, conspiratorial but not exactly quiet. “Let’s talk.”

“About the _volume of your voice_ ,” Cirrus hisses back. A few Siblings across the room, using a projection spell to flip through microfiche, glance up, then back down again. “I’m not talking in a library.”

Dewdrop’s sitting closer to her than really seems necessary in the unswept and untidy basement of the library. Cirrus has the curious feeling that he started out at least a few tables over from where he’s sitting now and gradually crept closer for nefarious purposes, like a migratory invasive species. _Ghoulus mischievous._

Cirrus turns back to the shelf. She’s looking for something old, dusty, and extra-convincing as set dressing in case anyone gets curious about the ritual. It’s best to stack the deck to deter people from trying to invite themselves, which is exactly what Dewdrop appears to be doing. 

Ignoring him, she flips through a delicate leather-bound volume with gold-tipped pages. Ten out of ten for aesthetics, but if she gets an errant raindrop on something so fragile, Sister Imperator will have her stuffed and mounted. She sets it back and feels along the spines for something sturdier. 

“I’m in the marketplace of ideas,” Dewdrop says, gesturing around him at the dusty stacks. He’s got a book in his lap that’s definitely not being read and his feet up on the table. “You have a philosophical obligation to hear me out.”

“I do not. And,” she says, grabbing a thick volume at random and tucking it under her arm. “I heard talk that you were the reason it’s so hot in the first place.” 

This is a cheap shot, because you’d have to be a hell of a Fire ghoul to make it burn so hot for so long, and that takes more focus than Dewdrop is capable of. But there’s still a chance he’ll take the bait and chase after a flattering rumor like a dog with a rabbit. 

“Ha! I wish. Wasn’t me. Ask Alpha.” Dewdrop says, stretching so dramatically in his chair that it starts to tip. He picks up the book and opens it to a random page. Cirrus hears the rasp of a page being turned, slow and deliberately annoying. “So. You guys need my help? Anyone else coming?”

“No,” she says quickly, grabbing the next two books in front of her. “No other elements. You all have cooties. Besides, I’ve got what I need.” She raps the stack of books in her hand briskly. 

“Do you?” He asks. “Because I can’t help but notice you’ve got three of the same book there.” 

“What?” 

He looks pointedly at the stack in her arms.

Cirrus looks down, spreading her arms to shuffle the books a little, and right in the middle: three black-bound books with red lettering. Same size, same weight, same title. 

Fuck. So much for convincing set dressing. 

“Look,” she starts, trying to think of another rumor she can drum up to distract him with, but he’s already throwing down his book in triumph. _Betrothed & Bound to Baphomet_ bounces once and slides across the table. 

“Ha! I _knew_ it was something sexy!” 

There is a chorus of throat-clearing and shushing from the Siblings across the room. Cirrus has to extinguish the flame that bursts to life in the middle of Dewdrop’s open hand with a twitch of her wrist before the sprinkler system kicks on.

“Please stop trying to burn the humans’ hemlines,” she says wearily.

“I never get to have any fun,” he says, sullenly looking at the scorch mark on his palm. He wipes it on his pants. “So, why am I not invited? It can’t be my company, which, as we know, is thrilling. Is it because I didn’t bring the wine last time?”

She exhales, feeling the prickling displeasure of a plan derailed settling at her temples. “No, that’s not it.” She sets down the stack of identical books on the shelf and presses her knuckles into her eye sockets. 

They’re close, the ghouls. Closer than humans find polite—even the humans at the abbey. There’s not a lot of privacy between them, and for any other spell, and on _any other night,_ she probably wouldn’t have minded making it a family affair. 

Just... not this one.

“What, then?” Dewdrop needles. “I know you’re doing _something_ , because Rain got all shifty when I asked him. I promise I won’t set anything on fire. I actually have remarkable self-control these days, you know. Just the other day, Copia—” 

Cirrus’s thoughts must have migrated to her face, because Dewdrop trails off mid-sentence. 

“Okay, wait. You look weird. Really, no one else is coming?” He almost sounds like he’s embarrassed, but that can’t possibly be right, unless Hell’s frozen over. The legs of his chair hit the floor. Cirrus has to peer in close to make sure she’s seeing it right, because tact looks strange on him. “It’s just you two, isn’t it?” 

Cirrus shrugs, a little embarrassed herself. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, it kind of is. We just. You know...” She thumbs the pages at the closest book’s edge like a flipbook and exhales. “...wanted something just for us.”

The Unholy Father must be smiling up at her, because for once in his life, Dewdrop doesn’t press the issue. They all need a little privacy, sometimes. He nods like he understands, then holds a finger to his lips. It’s still smoking a little. 

"If anyone asks, you never saw me, and I definitely don’t have anything to do with the crop circle burned into the lawn.” 

“I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I’ve been talking to myself in the library this whole time, and I have exactly the right number of copies of—” She looks down at the books in her arms. “Blood Herbology: Third Edition.”

“A book so nice they wrote it thrice,” Dewdrop agrees, kicking back in his chair and closing his eyes. “You two have fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! <3


End file.
